


Go Quietly in the Night

by JhanaMay



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Secrets, War, medieval setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 09:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10331375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/pseuds/JhanaMay
Summary: War is an ugly, messy thing. It ravages and leaves destruction in its path. Sometimes, though, it only takes one person willing to do extraordinary things to change the course.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [Fanfiction Writers Critique Group](https://www.facebook.com/groups/1735180153380643/) on Facebook. The theme this month was "secrets."

Getting back into the castle is always easier than sneaking out. It’s ridiculous, considering that the kingdom has been under attack for three years, but Janyn says it’s normal. People only see what they expect to see.

Nathaniel stops in the shadow of the great wall and scrubs at his hands with a scoop of snow. It’s bitter cold, stinging his palms, but it quickly melts, and the slush runs red. He hasn’t had blood on his hands in two months—long enough to try to forget what it looks like—and the sight makes his insides run as cold as the wind that is burning his cheeks.

He’s doing this because he has to. He doesn’t have a choice. While his brothers and father can face the enemy on the battlefield, strong and proud, Nathaniel doesn’t have that option. Too small, too weak, too clumsy. It is a common opinion that Nathaniel is better off at home with the women and children—that he is of no use in defending his home. It rankles.

Nathaniel slinks along the wall to the grate along the back edge of the stable, careful to stick to the shadows even though he knows that no one will be watching. The porticos are lined with only the bare minimum of guards because the troops are all preparing for the battle tomorrow when the two forces will meet in the clearing in majestic, courageous combat.

It’s a bunch of horseshit. There’s nothing majestic or courageous about combat. It’s just blood and dismemberment and his older brother dying with his insides spilling out on the cobblestone courtyard. Nathaniel had looked up from where he knelt next to Karl, trying desperately to push his intestines back through the gaping wound in his abdomen, and saw Master Janyn watching him from the shadows. That was the day it started.

The grate slips away from the opening easily despite the snow drifted against it. Hidden behind a dense prickly bush at the back of the pig sty, Nathaniel and Janyn are probably the only people in the world that know it exists. Not to mention that no one bigger than a child—or a slight teenager—could fit through it anyway.

Once he’s inside, he fits the grate back into the grooves and turns to pull a loose brick from the narrow tunnel. He unwinds the black cloth from his head, yanks off his snug black tunic, and stashes them both in the wall. His knives come next—carefully pulled from the sheathes on his belt and around his ankles—then slid in on top of the bundle of cloth. By the time he belts his overshirt back in place, he looks like nothing more than what he is, a gangly sixteen-year-old. No one in the courtyard will look at him twice.

Trying not to look suspicious is even harder than trying to be invisible. He walks quickly—but not too quickly—and without making eye contact with any of the people he meets. No one looks at him anyway. They never do. Unless it seems, he’s trying to sneak out of the castle unnoticed. Then, every person he passes wants to talk to him.

Nathaniel breathes a sigh of relief once he’s across the courtyard and through the heavy wooden doors that lead up to the bed chambers. Master Janyn will find him later; he’s learned not to seek the man out before he’s ready. Now that he’s back inside, he forces himself into his usual shuffling walk. It’s so different from the swift, silent tread he uses beyond the walls that it takes him a moment to remember how to take a step. He stumbles, catching his toe on the edge of the stone, and comes down into an undignified sprawl.

A startled yelp drags his attention upwards. Rosalin, one of his mother’s ladies, is coming down the stairs with a basket of mending. She stops just a few steps above where he’s trying to drag himself to his feet. “Oh, my! Are you okay, Nathaniel?” She drops the basket to help him up.

“I'm all right, Ros. Nothing damaged but my pride.” Rosalin’s hand lingers in his for just a moment longer than is seemly. They both pull away at the same time, and Nathaniel quickly scans the corridor to see if anyone saw. There’s no one else around, so he scoops up the basket to hand it back to her. He finishes with a small bow. “See? Right as rain.”

Rosalin shakes her head fondly. “You’re ridiculous, my lord,” she says, remembering herself finally.

“That’s the king’s truth,” he admits. “But I’m truly okay. Just a tumble as I wasn’t watching where I was going. Not the first time and surely won’t be the last.” Having a reputation as being clumsy has saved his secret more than once. What used to be a source of irritation has become a saving grace.

“Of course,” she replies with a grin. She dips into a curtsy, then sweeps past him down the steps, a twinkle in her eye and a small smile still curving her lips.

Nathaniel makes his way upstairs, feeling much lighter than he had been. Mother would never approve of a match between one of his older brothers and Rosalin, but being the youngest and least promising of Lord Bennett’s sons might work in their favor. He pushes the door closed behind him with a scowl. If they could just get this infernal war out of the way. No one is going to be asking for anyone’s hand while the wolves are battering down their doors.

The fire he’d banked before he left springs to life with a few good pokes and another log, chasing the chill out of the room. He strips down and gives himself several swipes with a wet rag from the basin; the water he’d heated earlier is still tepid—uncomfortable but not agonizing. He’s pulling on a new pair of soft grey breeches and a worn linen sleep shirt when there is a sharp knock on the door.

When he opens it, Master Janyn slips in like a wisp of smoke. His small, compact form is very similar to Nathaniel’s, but he moves with an economy of motion that Nathaniel is still trying to master. When Lord Bennett decided to employ the slight Oriental man as arms master, many thought he’d gone mad. The successes of Bennett’s men-at-arms both in battle and in games has proven otherwise. Nathaniel is sure, though, that if his father knew what the two of them had been up to for the last year, he’d confess to madness himself.

“It is done.”

Nathaniel nods even though the words hadn’t been a question. “Just like we planned. Lord Kemmery, his second in command, and the field arms master are dead. Throats slit. Their troops will be in disarray by the ‘morn. Our men will take them easily.”

Keen eyes narrow, but Nathaniel can see the pride in them. “And no one saw you?”

Nathaniel turns and walks to the fireplace to pull a bottle of mead from the mantle. “Of course not. My Master trained me better than that.” He pours two mugs and holds one out. In deference to the man who has taught him everything he knows about stealth and how to bring an enemy to heel, he waits until Janyn takes a sip before he does the same.

Men like Karl still die on the battlefield—even since he and Janyn started waging this secret campaign—but the chaos wrought by eliminating the enemy’s leaders on the eve of battle has kept their casualties light. Fourteen men’s blood is on Nathaniel’s hands, but it’s a small price to pay for all the blood that hasn’t been spilled in the courtyard.

Janyn folds himself into the chair nearest the fire with a satisfied nod. “Good. Tell me everything.”  


End file.
